Wouldn't Wish It
by LikeAustralia
Summary: A violent tragedy and an evil conspiracy ruined lives years ago. Now, with magic facing its ultimate destruction, former heroes must face their dark pasts and grim futures to save what they hold most dear, discover what really happened eight years ago, and break free from a world nobody would wish for.
1. Chapter 1

Hello everyone! I was bored the other day and decided to start writing this fanfiction I'd had in my head for a while, a sort of combination between the stories I like now and the show of my childhood. I'm not sure where it's going to go, but I know it's fun to write! None of the characters belong to me, of course, copyright and all that. Let me know what you think in the comments!

•••

**Chapter 1**

Monsters didn't deserve kindness. She knew that. No one expected her to bother, under the circumstances, but she told herself that it was for that precise reason that she had to show compassion. If she didn't, no one else would, and if she did, she could remain the bigger person. The better person. She would be as different from that horrible person as possible.

Walking into the jail, the guards recognized her face, smiled at her familiar resolve and cheer. "How are you today? It's nice to see you," they called to her, her presence brightening the mood of the drab location. The girl responded in kind, grinning back, "I'm doing good, it's nice to see you too."

Everyone knew who she was there to see, and it had become an unspoken rule amongst the guards not to not speak about it. They brought the prisoner out to the phone behind bullet-proof glass, then returned the prisoner after the conversation was over. No one asked any questions, no one made any comments. It had been that way for years, the first Friday of the month, without fail.

The girl took her seat in front of the glass, then nodded to the guard on the other side that she was ready. Bring her in. The girl composed herself, trying to look upbeat and confident by the time the door opened.

Choppy, limp, red hair hung in her face, obscuring her eyes and the glare they were creating. She sat in front of the glass with an angry huff, her shoulders rigid, her handcuffed hands curled into fists. Nothing about her stature indicated that she wanted to be there, and yet, month after month, she still agreed to the visitation. Whatever her motives were, they were well hidden.

Each girl picked up their phones and held them to their ear, a moment of silence passing between them before either began to speak. "Vicky," the visiting girl finally greeted, attempting to smile and seem happy.

"Tootie," the redhead scoffed, her eyes dead, her face unflinching in its cold anger.

"I don't go by that anymore," the visiting girl answered simply, the same words spoken every month, "we're not in elementary school anymore."

"You don't say?" Vicky responded, glancing around the penitentiary, her voice venomous and annoyed. "What are you trying out this year?"

"Thea," the girl responded, holding her head up. Thea sounded interesting. Intriguing. Unique. It was a stretch, sure, but it had to be better than Tootie, and anything was better than Dorothy. Named after some sitcom character with a grandmotherly name, she had been used to trying to make the best out of it, switching nicknames every few years. A new identity each time, a new name and persona. The girl felt like she had been shouldered with a name that refused to fit her.

"Whatever," Vicky grumbled bitterly, rolling her eyes without any attempt at being subtle.

Another moment of silence passed between the sisters, the glass not nearly enough to hold back the tension. "Are you doing okay?" Thea finally asked. Vicky raised an eyebrow speculatively, and so her sister elaborated. "Are they treating you well? Are you making friends-"

"Cut the crap, Thea," Vicky snapped, her eyes narrowing cruelly. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," Thea answered, her face unwavering, her voice still calm.

"Why? Why the hell are you here?" Vicky leaned closer to the glass, almost as though she was trying to see the explanation written somewhere on Thea. "I know you hate me."

"I don't hate you."

"Yes, you do, you liar. You hate me." A smile began to creep up on Vicky's face, as though the hatred pleased her. "You hate me because of what I did. So do mom and dad, that's why they never come. But you...you come because there's someone you hate more than me."

Thea continued to stare ahead, her face still composed, a shield against any of her sister's words. Nothing Vicky could do could hurt her anymore. Nothing. "Who? Who do I hate more than you?"

The smile spread across Vicky's face, an expression so wicked that Thea had to focus on not shivering. In a whisper, Vicky breathed the name: "Yourself."

Thea raised her eyebrows and Vicky laughed, elaborating on with faint excitement. "You hate yourself, because deep down, you know this is your fault. You know it all happened because of you, you know that they would be here if it weren't for you."

There was no reason to relinquish control. It was what Vicky wanted, and Thea wouldn't give her that victory. "You're wrong," she responded briskly. That was the end of it.

"How does it feel," Vicky asked, her voice suddenly silky and persuasive, "knowing that you helped to kill a man?" Thea took a deep breath. Vicky wouldn't get a rise out of her, not anymore. "How does it feel, knowing that you let your sister take the blame? That you let him take the blame?"

That was what did it. The arrow that managed to penetrate all of her shields. Him. The thought of him shook Thea to her core, unleashing memories she had tried to keep buried. "Stop," she said calmly, trying to put an end to the pain before it could begin. It only made Vicky press harder though.

"Some way to show love," Vicky chided, her eyes menacing and dangerous. "Leave him in there, facing death-"

"Stop."

"Get him locked up-"

"I said stop."

"Make him out to be a damn psycho-"

"I said stop, Vicky!" Thea cried out, her composure finally slipping. The redhead's menacing grin grew, empowered by the emotional pain she was inflicting.

"You ruined him. You ruined him, and you blame yourself. You only come here out of guilt, because you aren't allowed to see him."

Thea tried to argue, but the more she stammered, the more her emotions began to come towards the surface. She could feel herself beginning to shake, hot tears starting to form in the corners of her eyes. Finally, she gave up, admitted defeat and stood up, slamming the phone back down again. "I hope you rot in here!" She shrieked, suddenly wanting nothing more than for her sister to suffer the punishment she deserved.

It had been Vicky's fault. Vicky, and that...that creep. That monster. They had done it, they had destroyed everything. Thea hadn't done anything, she had been a young girl, a different girl. Tootie. Tootie hadn't done anything. Yet, somewhere, in the back of Thea's mind, Vicky's words gnawed at her, getting to her and making her worry. What if she had been the reason? What if it was all her fault? Maybe...maybe everything would still be okay...

The image of him being taken away from there, the blood dotting his pink clothes, the fire ravaging his childhood home, was an image that Thea had tried to erase from her mind for years, all without success. He had been taken away, her sister had been put in jail, and the entire city of Dimmsdale seemed to turn a cold shoulder to her. Rumors circulated about what had actually happened that night, but nobody ever quite seemed to hit the truth. Thea had some ideas though, and in guilt, they traced back to her.

She turned on her heels and stormed out of the jail, avoiding any of the guards' glances or kind hearted goodbyes. All Thea wanted was to leave, leave everything. She hurried to her car, the tears swelling up further in her eyes, blurring the world around her. She felt so alone, so miserable.

"I wish he was here," Thea breathed, leaning against her car. Instantly, she felt stupid. A silly little girl with a crush, chasing after a boy. After all, what good was wishing anymore?


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

He was going home. No matter how many times he said it, it still didn't seem true. It had been the only thing he had wanted for years, the goal that kept him pushing forward, trying to improve, and now it was finally happening. It almost couldn't be real.

All his hoping and wishing for home though hadn't been thought out. Timmy liked the idea of home, the concept of a place where things could be normal, but when the go-ahead was finally given, he began to realize that a place like that wasn't going to be in Dimmsdale. He would be returning to the scene of the crime, returning to people who hadn't seen him in years, who probably thought he was a complete psychopath. He would be face to face with all of the destruction he'd caused, all of the people he had hurt. It wasn't going to be salvation, it was going to be hell.

But at that point, it was too late. Eight years trying to get home couldn't be so quickly undone. His doctors thought it would be good for him, his mother had been fighting the courts- one way or another, Timmy was being taken back home. The day came when his mother picked him up, he loaded his bags into the trunk, and they set off for Dimmsdale, the prodigal son set to make his unwanted return.

The car ride was silent, too much tension stuffed in the vehicle for it to be safe. Timmy continued to glance at his mother, and she continued to glance at him, but anytime their eyes met, they each turned away. Timmy knew that his mother was trying hard to keep everything together. He knew the sacrifices she had made on his behalf. Eight years of bouncing her son between psychiatric wards and correctional facilities, halfway homes and hospitals, had put a serious strain on Mrs. Turner. A strain on her career. A strain on her marriage. When she looked at Timmy, he could swear he saw her veiled resentment, hatred of her son for ruining everything.

It was odd though. Timmy didn't often try to remember his past anymore, content to leave it the blurry, blacked out mess that it was, but he could swear that at one point or another, he and his mother had been close. They had loved each other fiercely, same with his dad. Now, there was no indication of that. Hell, his dad wasn't even around anymore, driven away by the circumstances surrounding his son. It was like he was remembering the wrong people.

"Are you going to be okay?" Mrs. Turner finally asked, the first words spoken only at the very end of the journey as the car turned into the neighborhood.

Timmy swallowed, trying to keep composed as the nervousness built up in his chest. "Yeah," he mumbled, more so to convince himself than his mother. What if he wasn't going to be okay? What if going home was going to trigger something...bad? The nightmares, the flashbacks, the feelings he didn't understand or remember- Timmy didn't want them to come back. He wanted them to stay buried in his mind. He wanted a new beginning.

"We'll make it work," Mrs. Turner decided, her voice soft enough that Timmy was fairly sure she was only talking to herself.

The houses on the streets began to grow more and more familiar, and Timmy quickly realized that they were getting close to home. The anxiety rose in his chest, and he tried to prepare himself for anything and everything that would come. They turned the last corner, passed the three houses before theirs, and Timmy found himself staring at his old home.

Nothing happened.

"It looks different," Timmy stated in confusion, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the house. It vaguely resembled what he remembered from childhood, but it was also very clearly different. The paint was a different color, some of the roof slanted in new directions, the windows and doors were all a changed design- it didn't seem like the same home.

"Well," his mother began slowly, pulling into the garage and parking the car, "after the...uh..." She looked at her son, struggling for the least offensive word to use. "After the incident, we repaired and renovated the house. Some things are different, but it's still the same house."

"That must have been expensive," Timmy noted, unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out of the vehicle.

"It was." His mother chose not to beat around the bush, the stress clearly showing on her face again. "After all the press the, um, incident, got, not many contractors were willing to work with us. It had to be done though, clearly. We made it work."

Timmy popped open the trunk and removed his luggage, chewing nervously at the side of his mouth as he did. He could only imagine how hard the past few years had been for his mom, and he knew there was nothing he could do to undo any of it. "I'm sorry," he said honestly with a sigh. "I wish things were different."

"Me too." His mother's words weren't as longing, but instead more harsh. Resentful. She was angry at the trouble Timmy had caused, and he couldn't help but notice. Wordlessly, Timmy grabbed his bags and followed his mother inside, looking around at the house, taking note of the small differences that had taken place.

"I got you something," Mrs. Turner said, awkwardly starting conversation back up again. Timmy raised an eyebrow speculatively, drawing nearer to his mother in curiosity. "I just thought," Mrs. Turner continued, "you'd like something to make the transition easier."

She beckoned her son into the dining room, and Timmy followed behind her, somewhat nervously. As he stepped into the room and around his mom, his eyes were drawn to the dining room table, which was completely bare except for one object sitting in the very center: a fishbowl. It was comically round, with a little purple castle and a giant red present bow on the outside. Two puffy little goldfish swam around, their big eyes seeming to stare at Timmy.

"It's...goldfish?" Timmy asked apprehensively.

"Yes," his mother answered, seeming thoroughly befuddled as to her son's lack of pure glee, or even understanding. "You had them when you were younger, remember? You really loved them, you took them everywhere."

Timmy's face was blank as he stared at the gift resting on the table. He had pets? He took them everywhere? He turned his face from the bowl and looked at his mother, eyes wide in honesty as he shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

•••

Thank you anyone who has taken the time to read this! It means so much, and I'd love to hear any of your comments. Hope you're enjoying yourselves!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The booming knock in the middle of the night rattled the entire house, shaking it to the foundation and producing a sound so loud it woke up the entire street, not to mention the boy trying to sleep upstairs. There was only one person in the world who could possess such force, and if he was calling in the dead of night, things had to have gotten worse.

The boy wasn't blind, nor was he deaf. He could see the signs, hear the whispers, feel the growing tension that had been surrounding everything. Adults looked at him differently nowadays, like they were trying to hug him with their stares while simultaneously lying about everything. It was disconcerting to say the least, being so blatantly kept from the truth. Did they think he couldn't handle it?

What they didn't know was that he remembered. Not much, granted, it had been years ago, and he had only been a baby, but he remembered enough to piece some things together. He remembered enough to be sad, to miss his family. He remembered enough to be angry at the rest of the world for purposely keeping him in the dark on the matter.

The boy slipped out of his bed and tiptoed to the door, creaking it ajar as silently as he could manage to peek out and hear the conversation being held downstairs. Just barely, through the banisters on the stairs, he could see Mama Cosma, still in her bathrobe, arms nervously crossed over her chest, and, of course, he could see Jorgen, his giant stature taking up the entirety of the doorway. For once, his typically dominating voice was hushed, trying not to raise alarm.

"They're going to cut the power," Jorgen stated, his voice still carrying even as he tried to be quiet. "Chances are, how it stands, we won't be able to stop them, so we need to get him out. Now."

"What?" Mama Cosma gaped, moving aside as Jorgen entered the small cottage. "You said we had time!"

"I thought we did," Jorgen answered angrily, starting his ascent up the stairs, not waiting for an invitation to do so.

"Wait!" Mama Cosma insisted, chasing the toughest fairy in the universe up the stairs, her most overprotective grandmother expression in full effect. "You can't just send him like this!"

Jorgen turned back over his shoulder, his voice bitter and harsh. "Would you prefer the Anti-Fairies to get their hands on him?"

Mama Cosma's lip quivered, her whole body growing stiff. She looked at Jorgen with wide eyes, trying to find a way to avoid the reality of the situation. "He's just a little boy, Jorgen," she said, her voice starting to tremble. "He shouldn't have to do this! He doesn't even know what's going on!"

"He'll be fine," Jorgen argued, turning back away and continuing to march down the hall. "He's unstable, but he's powerful. It's just what we need to subvert Da Rules."

"Subvert Da Rules?" The boy breathed, his eyebrows lowering as he tried to piece together all that was happening. They were talking about him, that much was certain, but what did they mean? All of a sudden, in the moment that he had drawn back from the door, his name was boomed out as the door was bashed forcefully in, the wood smacking him in the face. "Poof!"

"Oww!" The boy exclaimed, his hands going to his nose and checking for permanent damage. "How about you try knocking next time?" The tongue in cheek comment didn't seem to go over well, Jorgen's face remaining in a stony, grim expression. Staring up at the powerful fairy, Poof began to grow nervous. All the things he had been saying, the severity of his expression: something very, very bad was happening.

"Get up," Jorgen commanded, not bothering to offer the young fairy a hand or any condolences as to his new injury. "We need to leave, now."

"Leave?" Poof asked, rising to his feet in a hurry, driven by the pressure Jorgen was creating. "Where are we going? What's going on? Mama?" Poof turned to his grandmother, in a desperate bid for answers. She stood rigid in the corner of her grandson's room, a hand over her mouth in a feeble attempt to shield her clearly panicked emotions and shook her head at her grandson, wordlessly directing him to listen to the Head Fairy over anyone else. Poof cautiously turned back to Jorgen, but found the militant fairy was already starting to head back down the stairs.

"I'll explain on the way, there isn't time!"

Poof could feel his grandmother's arms wrapping around him in what he thought was a meaningful embrace, only to start to realize that it was actually a gentle push for him to follow Jorgen. There wasn't time for a proper send off, it seemed, and Mama Cosma had resolved herself to that point. "Be brave," she whispered in Poof's ear as she walked him firmly to the door, all while trying to blink tears from her eyes. She turned his face to hers one more time, brushing the purple hair out of her grandson's eyes, only for him to be briskly grabbed and tugged away by Jorgen before she could drag the moment out any longer. With his massive hand clamped tightly around Poof's small arm, Jorgen set off at a sprint, practically dragging the young fairy behind him.

"Where are we going?" Poof asked, his eyes darting around to look at the many other fairies starting to enter the streets in the dead of night, all looking worried, some crying, some starting to hyperventilate. Things were beginning to grow chaotic, and Poof could feel his heart rate starting to accelerate.

"The bridge," Jorgen answered back, his voice authoritarian and brisk, trying to impart as much information as he could in the ever dwindling time frame. "You're going to Earth, and we have to get you there before the Anti-Fairies cut the power to the bridge."

Earth. Anti-Fairies. Poof blinked, trying to force his mind to keep up, fighting back the sleepiness that was still clouding his mind. The Anti-Fairies had slowly been gaining power for years, but Poof had no idea it had gotten bad enough to the point where they'd be able to cut power to the Rainbow Bridge. "Why am I going to Earth?" He asked another question, his chest pounding from the adrenaline. They weren't too far out from the bridge, but neither fairy knew how close the Anti-Fairies were from taking control.

Jorgen swallowed, his mind racing to find the most concise way to explain the dire situation. "We need you..." He paused, halting movement for a split second to look directly into Poof's eyes, the look on Jorgen's face clearly pained. "We need you to find Timmy Turner." Immediately after the words left his lips, Jorgen commenced running once more, tugging Poof behind him.

"Timmy?" Poof repeated incredulously. That couldn't be right. In eight years, Poof hadn't heard anyone mention Timmy, as though the entire world assumed he had forgotten his former god-brother, and thus they chose to forget as well. The memories were old and faded, but Poof hadn't forgotten the boy who had wished him into existence. He remembered the fun, the love, and...that night. Or, at least, some of that night. But, Timmy was older now, and after everything that had happened, there was some fundamental piece to the puzzle missing as to why Poof was suddenly being sent back to find the boy. "Why am I going to find Timmy?"

The bridge was in sight, and the two fairies quickened their pace even more. Jorgen struggled to find an answer, his words coming out fast and jumbled. "It's complicated," he began, much to Poof's aggravation. "Turner is the only god-child that has ever gone against the Anti-Fairies. We need him now."

"But why am I going?" Poof blurted out, suddenly realizing that was the root of all of his questions. Why him? Why did he have to go?

"He wished for you," Jorgen replied simply, the two fairies finally reaching the bridge, both entirely out of breath. "We wiped his memory years ago, following Da Rules, but we can't afford to follow those anymore. You're the only one he might manage to remember, and since you're not yet a godparent, your magic can't be tied to Da Rules. Your raw magic will still work, even if the Anti-Fairies get our power." Jorgen's confident demeanor shifted slightly, and he amended his last statement, "Or, at least, it will hopefully still work."

Poof swallowed, looking at the long bridge down to Earth nervously. There was a lot riding on his ability to succeed at a mission he didn't fully understand, with a boy he didn't fully remember. Question upon question bounced around in his mind as he cautiously stepped onto the bridge, but there was one that stood out the most firmly.

Jorgen had been more honest with Poof in the last few minutes than any adult had been with him in the last eight years. If there was a ever a moment to try to grasp the truth, Poof told himself that he was in it. "Jorgen," he began, turning towards the fairy one last time, trying not to look as scared as he was feeling, "what...what really happened to my parents?"

The toughest fairy in the universe, whose strength was rivaled by no one, suddenly began to look extremely weak. His eyes softened, and he crouched down to look the young fairy directly in the eye. Poof could see the truth forming in Jorgen's mind, reaching toward's the tip of his tongue, but at the last second, he faltered. Jorgen grabbed Poof's shoulders and gave him a solid shove, pushing him into a slide down the bridge. "Find Timmy!" He called out after the boy, watching him slide the long way down to Earth.

Poof screamed, the infinite universe whirring past him on his descent. Magic propelled him forward, down to Earth, and Poof could only pray he would land in the correct location. He felt a lurch as the bridge began to pass into the stratosphere, then began to feel the bridge shake violently beneath him. Dark magic crept up around him, dissolving the bridge right out from under the boy. "No!" Poof shouted, scrambling to find something to grasp, but falling inevitably into the void of air, unsupported by anything. He shut his eyes tightly, falling faster and faster towards the world below, wishing for safety, or at least a quick death.

All of a sudden, tree branches jabbed at the boy, gouging and cutting him, but breaking his near deathly fall by slowing his propulsion. With a solid and painful thunk, Poof landed onto the earth, his body aching, but remaining intact.

Poof opened his eyes slowly, looking around at the dark gathering of trees. Dimmsdale Park- he remembered it through a haze of memory. This was where they played around everyday, a boy and his three best friends masquerading as color-schemed objects. There had been good times at the park, good times that Poof had been missing for years.

It all started to hit him then. He was alone, forced back to a world he no longer belonged in, expected to carry all of Fairy World on his shoulders. His parents were...a mystery, his god brother was...just as big of a mystery, and he didn't know where to even begin. He was a kid, unbridled raw magic be damned, he was still just a kid. Poof could feel the stinging of tears in his eyes, and he forcefully began to blink them back. Any time he cried, stuff happened- a gift and a curse that hadn't gone away yet. He forced them back and stood up, looking around at the world he was in now.

"I wish things were easier," Poof groaned. Looking around the park, he started to get his bearings back. The Turner's house was a few blocks away. Might as well start there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Welcome to the Cake 'n Bacon, may I take your order?" Thea plastered on her biggest, most winning waitress smile, trying her hardest to be the physical embodiment of hospitality. It didn't matter though. The customer of the hour, in this case a middle aged man reading a newspaper, merely glared at her, completely unimpressed by the cheer.

"Coffee," he responded back gruffly, flipping to another page in the newspaper. Alright then. Thea dropped the upbeat act and grabbed the coffee pot and a mug, pouring the steamy liquid then sliding the mug to the man, all without another word. Her hopes for a tip were quite small.

It was fairly common knowledge that the Cake 'n Bacon had gone completely downhill. Management had changed hands out of desperation, and quality had decreased dramatically. The last few patrons of the joint were either slowly moving on, or growing more bitter about the restaurant's standards, and all of Dimmsdale predicted it would be closed within the year. Essentially, it was the most horrible waitressing job one could have in Dimmsdale, and, consequently, it was the only one Thea had managed to get. Perks of sharing a last name with one of Dimmsdale's most infamous convicts. Even behind bars, Vicky still managed to ruin Thea's life.

As Thea placed the coffee pot back in its place, the other unfortunate waitress on shift glided past her in a huff, her face a contortion of extreme irritation. "I'm so sick of this," the girl groaned, her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side. "That last guy had five pancakes, three cups of coffee, made me take every single thing back to the kitchen- no tip. Jerk."

The man at the counter looked up, raising an eyebrow at the blatant customer-trashing, so to save face, Thea gently took her coworkers elbow and led her to the other corner of the floor. "That really sucks, Veronica. It'll be okay though."

"Like hell it will be," the girl answered back, rolling her eyes, her arms crossed over her chest. "I need the money! I'm so sick of this. Trixie's birthday is tonight and I have no gift, and no money to buy one with. God, I hate this freaking place."

Thea inhaled through her nose, struggling with the thought in her head, but ultimately deciding to go with it, against her better judgement. She reached into her jeans pocket beneath the Cake 'n Bacon apron and pulled out two wrinkly ten dollar bills and a twenty. "Here," Thea said meekly, handing the money over to Veronica, "take it, you can pay me back later. I'll cover the rest of your shift, you go get the present." Veronica's face instantly lit up, a smile spreading across her face as she reached for the cash. At the last second, Thea moved her hand away, nervously adding on to her statement before relinquishing the money. "Just...do you think you could get Trixie to be...not as mean to me?"

Veronica snatched the money out of Thea's hands, looking at the bills boredly, as if she was disappointed it wasn't more. "I don't control Trixie," she responded back snappily, pocketing the money and removing her apron. "But, I guess I'll try to let her know you aren't quite so unpleasant."

"Thanks," Thea replied back, uncertainly, the backhanded comment catching her off guard.

Veronica shrugged, flipping her ponytail back over her shoulder as she began to stroll towards the door. "There's some kid in the booth in the corner," Veronica called back, filling Thea in on her own sole customer. "He needed more time to decide." All of a sudden, she stopped, turning back around, her eyes wide with shallow concern. "Wait. You are coming tonight though, right Thea?"

Now, that was funny. Thea laughed, looking at the floor in embarrassment, thinking about the complete absurdity of what Veronica was asking. Trixie? Inviting her? Hilarious. "I wasn't invited, V."

"Really?" Veronica responded, her face pouty and confused, as if she didn't realize that anywhere outside of the Cake 'n Bacon she and Thea weren't friends, and that nowhere in Dimmsdale was Trixie ever friends with Thea. "Well, I'm inviting you. You should come!"

"Heh. Yeah, maybe I will," Thea responded, using up all her willpower to not sound overly sarcastic. Veronica smiled and with a final wave of her manicured hand, she left the building, all without even the slightest thank you at Thea's earlier generosity.

"You're welcome," Thea whispered dryly, watching the more popular girl leave the restaurant.

Thea sighed, trudging towards the corner booth of the restaurant, a sudden gloom taking control of her typically optimistic disposition. She felt like she was stuck, trying to break free from a character that she didn't want. For now though, she was simply a disgruntled waitress. Thea took a look into Veronica's booth at the very corner and raised an eyebrow, the sight that met her not one she typically encountered: young boy with bright purple hair, all alone, completely passed out, his head resting gently in his hands.

"Hey," Thea greeted gently, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Sweetie, you okay?" With a jump, the boy's eyes popped open. He looked around wildly, quickly trying to feign alertness, before finally stopping to look up at Thea with an embarrassed smile.

"Sorry," he answered sheepishly, "I haven't had my coffee yet."

"You don't say?" Thea laughed, crossing her arms over her chest in mock bewilderment, her eyes widening in shock. The boy shrugged impishly, relishing in his charm. Although he seemed to carry himself with enough confidence, Thea could tell the boy wasn't even in the fourth grade yet, making his presence in the restaurant completely unsupervised somewhat of a red flag. Alone and falling asleep in a public venue wasn't a good combination.

"Can I get you anything?" She asked, deciding that kindness would be the best approach to helping. "Besides coffee, I mean. You actually seem a little young for that." She flashed the boy a warm smile that he returned, clearly picking up on how she was teasing him.

"Thanks, but no," he responded, his eyes shifting, his expression growing more serious. "I actually needed something else."

"Okay," Thea answered receptively, sliding into the booth opposite the boy. "Are your parents around?" She asked, anticipating having to make some phone calls to return the boy to a place more proper than the Cake 'n Bacon.

The boy swallowed, moving his purple bangs away from his forehead with a small laugh. "No," he said simply, "no, they definitely aren't." The boy then turned back to Thea, shaking his head, in an attempt to undo his last comment. "Not that that's a problem! It isn't. I'm fine. I'm just," he struggled with his words, trying to make them come out the precise way he wanted them to, his hands moving to try and grasp at the ideas, "I'm looking for someone. My...uh, cousin. I'm supposed to meet him, and I don't remember where to go."

"Alright," Thea responded slowly, keeping up with the boy and choosing to believe what all he was saying. It was true, he was starting to become less and less convincing, but she could see no benefit in him lying. "Well, maybe I can help. Who's your cousin?"

"Timmy Turner," the boy answered, not missing a beat.

Timmy? Thea sat back in surprise, the sheer mentioning of his name without it being surrounded by gossipy whispers a complete abnormality. He had ceased being a person and had become a thing of myth, almost an urban legend- not someone with cousins looking for a visit. The boy continued to stare at her, his eyes big and innocent, searching her for help, and Thea could only stare back, mouth open, stammering for words.

"I'm sorry," she finally verbalized, snapping herself out of the trance, trying to plant herself back in reality. "You said Timmy Turner?" The name felt strange when she said it, memories rushing back to her of a sweet, adventurous boy in a pink hat, coupled with that of the same boy, dotted with blood, being forced into an ambulance. He was a ghost from the past, who was this kid to bring him back? "I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?"

"P...eter. Peter," the kid answered back, almost mechanically, as if for a second he had forgotten the answer. "So, do you know him?"

Did she know him? Did anyone know him anymore? Had anyone actually known him? Once upon a time she had thought she knew Timmy pretty damn well, but those days were long gone. "Uh...I guess so," she replied, the boy's innocence in reference to his cousin starting to become disconcerting. "I don't...I don't think you're going to find him here though. He hasn't been in Dimmsdale for years."

Peter's eyebrows lowered, his face challenging. "Really?" He asked doubtfully. "Are you sure he's not here? I was led to believe he was."

"Well," Thea began, ready to argue. She stopped herself though, suddenly doubting her own words too. What if he was back? Surely she would know, but...maybe? If his cousin said he was back... "I...I guess I don't really know. Maybe he is back."

"Well, assuming that he is," Peter said, cutting back to his original point, "where would I find him?"

Thea swallowed, her mind clouded with doubts all of a sudden, trapped in a daze of nostalgia and questions. Still, she knew the Turner's house, that was for sure. "Take a left at the end of the street and go three blocks. The Turners are on the right, three houses over."

"Thanks," Peter replied, his face breaking out into a wide smile, clearly relieved. "I was on the right track." Suddenly in a hurry, he got up from the booth and began to head towards the door, Thea's mind having to race to process what was happening.

"Wait," she called after him, rising to her feet herself. "Are you going to be okay, do you need me to take you?"

"Nah, I can handle it. Thank you though, uh, Thea," he said, reading the name off of her tag. With a small wave and a big smile, he ran out the door, beginning to jog down the street before Thea could get another word in edgewise.

Timmy. There was no way he was back. It was practically beyond the realm of possibility. Still though...she had to wonder. With a quick look at the clock, Thea did the math. Two hours and twenty minutes until her shift ended. There was no reason she couldn't go by the Turner's house then. Check to make sure Peter had found his way alright. Casually see if Timmy was back.

Because if Timmy was back...he was certainly in for a rough time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Every night that Timmy laid down in bed, expecting to sleep, he was gambling. Gambling his ability to fall asleep, within an hour, within a night, within a lifetime; gambling his ability to not have a nightmare, to sleep dreamlessly- every night became the same routine of not knowing, just hoping for the best. It was the time of the day when he felt the most crazed, the most out of control, closing his eyes and letting something larger than himself take over. Over the years, he had been getting luckier- if he managed to sleep, it was dreamless, and if he couldn't sleep, he still wasn't having a nightmare- but it didn't erase the constant unknowing fear that hovered above him every night.

The thought of finally sleeping in his own bed- not a hospital bed, or a halfway house cot, his own childhood bed at home- had given him some anxiety. As if being back in Dimmsdale wasn't enough to contend with, the idea of being back in his old room, sleeping on his old bed, relinquishing the control of being awake in the same place he had lost control years ago was eating away at him. At a certain point, he had decided to simply stay awake as long as possible, unable to take such a huge gamble. When Mrs. Turner came into his room the following morning, he greeted her groggily as a young man living on a collective twenty minutes of sleep.

"What's wrong?" She had asked in sudden alarm, looking at him as though she had already managed to screw up somehow. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Timmy had assured her, trying to sound wholly convincing, "I just couldn't sleep." He kept the explanation minimal, deciding not to trouble his mother with his fear of recurring nightmares. Not only did it sound childish, but explaining the nightmares would make him seem psychotic. No need to scare his mother any more than she already was.

He could tell she was scared. The way she carried herself, speaking as though she was walking on eggshells, Timmy could sense the very palpable tension in the house. Whether she was scared of him specifically or of failing him still remained to be seen, but neither option seemed fair to her. He tried to smile at her anytime she looked at him, trying to reassure her that they were both okay, but it didn't seem to have any effect.

As his mother scrambled around the kitchen on the tight schedule necessary to leave the house on time, Timmy took to simply staring at the goldfish he had been given, which sat still on the dining room table. His mother assured him that he had owned fish just like them, that they were very special to him, and he had loved them immensely, but he couldn't remember them to save his life. He remembered the bunnies, the gerbils, the hamsters, sure, but no goldfish. It just didn't register in his mind at all, like a giant erasure had yanked it straight from his memory.

"Mom," he asked cautiously, watching as one of the fish swam behind the small castle, "are you sure I had goldfish?"

"What?" She responded, looking up from her frantic scurrying, her hands clutching the loaf of bread she would use for toast. "Goldfish? Yes, you definitely had goldfish. You loved them a whole lot."

Timmy began to chew at the side of his mouth, searching his memory yet again, but not recalling a single notable fish. It was strange, not to mention bothersome. It wasn't exactly normal to forget something supposedly so meaningful. When he glanced back at his mother, he caught her in the act of staring at him worriedly, her eyes big and her lips pursed. "You really don't remember?" She asked quietly. Timmy inhaled, trying his best to seem nonchalant and not let his own troubles show. The last thing he needed was for his mom to believe he was losing it all based on some dumb fish.

The young man shrugged, answering back casually, "Eh, not really. That's fine though."

His mother clearly didn't take the bait, her concerned expression unwavering. "That's not...normal, is it?" She asked, her words blurring the line between statement and question, as though she wasn't entirely sure if it was normal or not.

"I don't know," Timmy responded, shrugging his shoulders once again. "It was a while ago, I probably just forgot. I don't think I repressed the memory of my goldfish, if that's what you're thinking." But that was exactly what she was thinking, and what was more, it was what he was thinking. He'd repressed quite a bit of what had happened eight years ago, what was to say he hadn't repressed more?

"You did have the fish right around the time you were with..." His mother's voice faltered, finally ending awkwardly on "them." Timmy swallowed, looking back at the fish, trying to believe that he just couldn't remember them. That was what happened when you got older, right?

"They're just fish, mom," he said, speaking more to himself than he wanted to admit. "I wouldn't repress fish."

With a sigh, his mother returned to hustling around the kitchen, making her breakfast and packing her briefcase all in a frantic rush not to be late, leaving an awkward amount of tension in her wake. Timmy continued to stare at the fish, hoping that something would jog his memory. Maybe the fish could leap out of the bowl and remind him of his cherished old pets. "What did I name them?" He asked casually, trying to dispel the tension and make pleasant conversation.

"Oh honey," Mrs. Turned breathed exasperatedly, "now that's something I don't remember. Walter, maybe? Connor? I really don't know." The toast popped out of the toaster with a pop and she jumped, rushing to it with her files still under arm. "Now, are you going to be okay here while I'm gone?"

Would he be okay? Was that a "are you going to murder someone, burn the house down, and get sent to a correctional facility?" kind of okay or a "are you going to be able to find lunch?" sort of okay? The ambiguity was fairly strong, given the circumstances.

"I'll be fine, mom," Timmy answered with a small smile, trying to appear as someone fully capable of caring for himself. "I won't burn the house down, I promise." The resulting sudden glare from his mother smacked the smile clean off his face in an instant. "That was a joke. I'm sorry."

"Do you think this is funny, Timmy?" She asked sternly, her jaw locked. "This is serious. I had to fight a lot of people to get you back here, and if you screw up, you could be going back. Is that what you want?"

God, no. Timmy shook his head apologetically, regret filling up his every pore. One smart comment and he was getting the ultimate guilt trip and lecture. His mother seemed satisfied that her point had been driven home and this resumed her packing once more, this time being first to try to lighten the mood again.

"Do you think you'll try to see some friends today?" She asked, suddenly sounding more like her son had returned from summer camp than a psychiatrist prescribed facility.

"I don't think anyone really wants to see me," Timmy answered bluntly, knowing that he probably wouldn't had the situations been reversed. He would be afraid, weirded out, not in the mood to hang out.

"Well," his mother decided, picking up her briefcase, "you should try. A real social life might do you some good."

"Yeah," Timmy agreed, trying not to sound too sarcastic. "I'll stick to trying to find the volunteer thing Dr. Millar said to 'integrate myself into society.' That'll be enough." He picked up his mother's travel coffee mug and handed it to her, noting her disapproving glance at his wryness, but choosing to ignore it. He would do what was required, and no more.

"Bye, sweetie," she sighed, hurrying out to her car with arms full. After a moment, he could hear the garage close behind her as she drove away, and it began to sink in that he was alone.

The realization was slightly daunting, making him feel very empty inside. For the first time in quite a while, he had no set schedule, no plans or ideas for what to do with his day. He wanted to sleep more than anything, but the risk still outweighed the benefit, and he found himself shying away from that idea. Maybe just a walk around town? See what had changed? That seemed good enough.

Timmy headed back to his room to change out of his pajamas, figuring that would be the best course of action to take. Gone were his days of all pink clothing, and in were the days of neutrals: a black v-neck, a gray hoodie, simple things. Boring things, maybe, but they were much more fitting nowadays. With a quick look in the mirror and the ultimate decision that unkempt hair and a slightly stubbly face were alright when you weren't hoping to impress anyone, Timmy determined himself ready, just in time for the doorbell to ring.

The young man hurried back down stairs, disgruntled at the idea of some door to door salesman or religion spreader, and even more disgruntled at the idea he'd be telling them to leave. He swung open the door, already giving his prepared "we're not interested," speech when he was caught off guard.

"Timmy!"

His first name? That was unusual, to say the least. Timmy stopped, leaving the door ajar, just enough to look out at the person on his doorstep. A young boy, seven or eight years old at least, with vivid purple hair stood on the welcome mat, his face bright and astonished. "I was a bit worried you weren't going to be here," the boy continued, flashing a huge, toothy grin.

"I'm sorry," Timmy finally managed to stammer out, staring at the kid in awe, "who are you? We don't need anything you're selling."

The boy's face started to fall, but it was quickly replaced by hard-pressed resolve. "I'm not selling anything, I'm here to see you. You don't remember me, I guess, but I'm Poof."

"Poof?" Timmy repeated speculatively. What kind of weird ass name was that?

"Yeah," the boy continued. "I'm your brother."

Timmy swallowed, looking at the young boy whose eyes were huge and filled with hope. The boy smiled warmly at Timmy, hoping and yearning for him to say something, to remember.

And with that, Timmy promptly slammed the door and locked it tight.


End file.
